


Bad Cop

by Daziechane



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Cuddling & Snuggling, F/M, Hand Jobs, Hospitalization, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, M/M, Nervous John, Oral Fixation, Outdoor Sex, Rimming, Romantic Sherlock, Understanding Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-26
Updated: 2013-11-12
Packaged: 2017-12-27 17:19:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/981568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daziechane/pseuds/Daziechane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock tried to hide it, and refused to acknowledge it, but John knew.<br/>They never spoke about it, and some days were better than others, but John knew.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock tried to hide it, and refused to acknowledge it, but John knew.  
  
They never spoke about it, and some days were better than others, but John knew.  
  
John knew that first night, when Sherlock’s hand shook as he held the cabbie’s pill to the light. He couldn’t see the detective’s face, but he imagined it countless times since. Pupils wide, lips parted, tongue just tipping his teeth. John imagined that’s what Sherlock would look like on the edge of lust, and wondered if he’d ever shown that look to another person.  
  
John knew on Christmas, when Mycroft told him Sherlock smoked the single cigarette. He’d imagined Sherlock’s head tipping back, his eyes closed, lips pursed to blow out the smoke. John imagined that’s what Sherlock would look like on the edge of pleasure, and wondered if he’d ever shown that look to another person.  
  
John knew when Sherlock was frantic for a case. When he barely restrained his energy and begged for work, for cigarettes, for distraction. John imagined that’s what Sherlock would look like on the edge of losing control, and wondered if he’d ever shown that look to another person.  
  
In reality though, outside of John’s torrid imagination, Sherlock’s daily struggle with addiction was exhausting. John knew the signs, having lived long enough with Harry to learn them, and having been a doctor long enough to know them, and it drove him mad that he couldn’t cure his friend. Nobody could, Sherlock would always struggle.  
  
John could try and ease the way though.  
  
**************  
Within weeks of moving into 221B, John developed a personal campaign. Just as he did when he prepared his men for sorties in Afghanistan, he set objectives, made a plan, made contingency plans, laid in supplies, and came up with a clever name.  
  
Operation Bad Cop. John knew it didn’t have anything to do with what he was trying to achieve, but he always wanted to be the Bad Cop.  
  
John knew that part of addiction was boredom. He’d never accuse an addict of “just” being bored, but he knew that boredom let the mind wander, and a wandering mind can go down some dark alleys. So step one in Operation Bad Cop was to keep Sherlock from being bored.  
  
During the times when they didn’t have cases, John made sure to involve Sherlock in news from the clinic. Not enough personal information to violate anyone’s privacy, or the law, but enough to keep Sherlock occupied, if even for a short time. After the clinic’s cases were deduced, John turned to friends for help. Molly provided interesting dead bodies, and Lestrade supplied cold cases.  
  
When those avenues ran dry, John resorted to contingency plans. Museums, art galleries, concerts. These were trickier, he had to approach Sherlock in just the right manner or the detective would get suspicious.  
  
All in all, though, Operation Bad Cop was a qualified success. It had been months since John saw the desperation in Sherlock’s eyes, the shake in his hands. He wasn’t sunshine and lollipops, although John did keep the flat stocked with snacks, including pretzel sticks and lollipops, to assuage Sherlock’s oral fixation, but he wasn’t crazed, and John began to breathe a little easier.  
  
Of course, that’s when it all broke apart.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Told you chapter 1 was just to get me in the mood. Now John and Sarah are on mini-break. How's THAT going for them?
> 
> Eternal thanks to Ash_ for helping me with this one.

John practically skipped down the stairs from his room that Wednesday evening. He was grinning to himself and looking incredibly smug.

Sherlock had been without a case for over 24 hours, and hated the world and everything in it, particularly a smug John.

“Why are you so happy? No- don’t tell me. Let me deduce.”

John just smiled and walked into the kitchen. “I was thinking Thai tonight?”

“Hair stuck up in the back, like a hedgehog- laid down on your bed for a bit. Skin not flushed, so not a wank. Left ear red, right not, you were on the phone. Insufferable grin- you were on the phone with a woman. Not wearing your date shoes, so nothing on tonight. I already know you are seeing Harry tomorrow night, so nothing then. Deduction- you’ve set up a date for Friday night.”

John turned. “Close. Close. But no. I’ve not set up a date for Friday night, I’ve set up a mini-break with Sarah over the bank holiday. We’re going to the Isle of Wight, leaving Friday after work and getting back Monday afternoon.”

Sherlock sputtered. “What if there’s a case? What if…”

John didn’t let him finish.

“Sherlock- you are a grown man, genius and innovative. If there’s not a case, you can call Lestrade and ask for a cold case. You can call Molly and ask for a corpse. You can lay about and think about the universe, I don’t know. But I am positive that you can survive on your own for 48 hours. You did it the entire time before I showed up, I know you can do it now. I am going to Wight with Sarah and I am going to GET BLOODY LAID. Now. Do you want curry?”

******************************

Despite his assurances, John was worried about Sherlock and what would happen if there was no case before he left. He’d spent so much energy keeping Sherlock’s mind occupied over the past few months, he wasn’t sure what would happen if Sherlock had to go, for lack of a better term, cold turkey. Not for the first time, John found himself wishing for a nice juicy murder. Oh God. What had he become?

Twisted fortune shone on him though, and Lestrade called Friday afternoon. Double murder. The bodies were found in the Thames, headless, naked. When John got Sherlock’s text he grinned and thanked… well. He grinned. He and Sarah were on their way. 

******************************

Just over 2 hours from London via train and ferry, the Isle of Wight was far enough and DIFFERENT enough from London to feel like an exotic vacation. John had booked a room in a B&B in Shanklin, overlooking the Channel. If the weather was clear, they could go to Queen Victoria’s summer palace and private bathing beach. Once again, John was hoping for the worst- a rainstorm, perhaps a hurricane. Anything to keep Sarah inside their comfy looking room instead of tramping all around the island.

Dinner at the Fisherman’s Cottage was exactly the right way to start the weekend, as far as John was concerned. Small and rustic, just romantic enough to hint, but not too much. He hadn’t gotten very far with Sarah, and didn’t want to scare her off. He grinned at the thought though- she’d proven to be much tougher than most, on their disastrous first date to the Chinese circus. Kidnapping, attempted murder, police involvement. Sometimes John wondered why she agreed to see him again and again.

But now wasn’t the time to wonder. They’d finished dinner, and walked slowly along the shore and through the quaint streets to their B&B. Their room was on the top floor, 1 of only three rooms in the place. It was quiet, and dark, and most importantly- no Sherlock.

Awkward. This was… awkward. John steeled himself. He could do this. He liked Sarah, he really did. She was smart and funny, and he suspected that she had a smoking hot body hidden behind the matronly blouses and long skirts. His initial attempts to feel her up had gone badly, but he had gotten a cursory touch.

She went into the bathroom to change, while he stayed in the room. He’d brought pajamas, but sincerely hoped they’d be just a temporary thing.

Sarah came back into the room, backlit from the bathroom light, head down, almost bashful. She looked… she took John’s breath away. White cotton nightgown, nothing overtly sexy, nothing alluring, but at that moment she was the most sexy, most alluring woman John had ever seen and he beamed.

She crossed to him and smiled back, and they leaned gently in for a kiss. A first, gentle, mouths closed, just testing. John wrapped his arms around her and pulled her closer, the second kiss was much different. 

As they continued to kiss, their feet were moving, shifting them towards the bed as if a gravitational pull was exerting itself on their bodies. Not really a fluid motion, though. Their eagerness to reach the bed was equal to their reluctance to let go of one another and let the kiss end. They kind of shuffled and spun their way the short distance across the floor until John felt his legs hit the side of the bed. As soon as he did, he was able to break the kiss, and collapsed down onto it without letting Sarah go, pulling her with him.

Once on the bed, the last vestiges of hesitancy fell away. Their hands were starting to explore, finally able to get better experienced with each other. There wasn’t any sense of urgency though, they seemed a bit more at ease than just even a few minutes before. 

John’s hand ran along Sarah’s side as they continued to kiss. He was able to pay attention to everything- the touch and feel of her mouth, her scent, the feel of her body under his hand as it ran along her side. He was pleased to find out his guess was correct- she had wonderful curves and he was enchanted. He hoped she was feeling the same about him, but he was far too interested in HER to worry. So long as he was allowed to explore and experience her, he was happy.

They paused and John raised up a bit to look at Sarah’s face. Their eyes met, and there was a spark there, a mutual understanding. They could both certainly see themselves ravishing each other- hot fast hard fucking. Maybe that would happen later, but right now felt a little more passionate than that. John had waited so long, he wanted to fuck her slowly, thoroughly, as if they were the only people left on earth, and the look on Sarah’s face told him she was thinking the same thing.

His hands moved to her neck, and he began to slowly lick and kiss. She tilted her head back to give him as much of herself as possible and she sighed. His hand was on her side again, while hers curled behind his neck, holding him against her. He ran his hand all the way down her leg, ignoring his thoughts of maybe a quick pass to the front and the delights under the fabric there. Not yet… but as he passed his hand back up, he found himself moving under her nightgown, encountering bare skin. Fingers ran up as he continued to work on her neck, now following her jaw line to her ear, allowing his breath to fill it as he nibbled.

Her hands dropped down John’s neck to his back. She ran them up and down, and he could feel her pulling at the fabric of his shirt. No matter what Sherlock said, he WAS a bright man, and could take a hint. He raised a little, and allowed her to pull his shirt up as far as she could, then sat to remove it completely. If she was going to start removing clothing though, so was he. He pulled on her nightgown, and she immediately arched her back to allow him to pull it off.

He paused, looking at her marvelous tits. His mouth watered a bit as he lowered it to her and began lavishing attention- kissing and licking his way around, intentionally bypassing her nipples for now. He raised one hand and began squeezing and rubbing the breast not covered with his kisses, but ignoring the nipple there as well. After a moment, he switched, moving his lips across her, slowly and deliberately. 

Time to push forward.

John’s mouth moved to her nipple, his tongue slipping out to run a tight circle around it. It was so stiff and inviting that he closed his mouth around it, sucking and pulling on it a bit as his hand found the other and began to rub and squeeze. Sarah moaned and arched against him, her hands running through his hair as she rolled her head back and forth.

He moved down her stomach now, his tongue running in long lines back and forth. She kept her hands in his hair, just touching softly. He was enjoying the feel of her skin and her body, relishing taking his time and appreciating the fact that she was letting him do so. But each pass of his tongue drew closer and closer to the waistband of her panties. It was time to see what delights they were concealing.

He slowly ran his hands under the elastic of her hips, keeping his mouth on her stomach. Might as well go all out, he tugged a little and she lifted her ass to make it easier. Now she was completely naked, and he sat for a moment admiring her. She was gorgeous. His glance was interrupted by an outstretched arm tugging on him. 

“That’s not very fair, now is it?” she grinned.

John got her point immediately, and shucked his pajama bottoms and pants, then laid down next to her again. His hand was drawn back down her stomach to her pussy, and he began to slowly and softly rub along the outside, taking his time to get the feel of her. At the same moment, her hand traveled in a similar direction, and he felt her fingers wrapping around his cock.

As they kissed, they were illuminated by a bright flash. They turned, and could see that a storm was brewing outside. A faint rumble of thunder followed a few moments later. John closed his eyes and offered a silent thanks.

Her hand was slowly moving, stroking him, pausing every now and then to feel and play a little. He responded in kind, cupping her pussy, then slowly sliding a finger inside. She gave a bit of a start, and he could feel her tongue jolt against his. She was hot and wet and his finger moved easily. He slipped another in, to increase her pleasure. Their kisses grew more intense, and her grip on his cock grew firmer.

There was a flash of lighting and bang of thunder, then darkness. The power had gone out. They paused, evaluating the situation, looking at one another. They could only see each other in the light of the continuing flashes, but it didn’t matter. There wasn’t anything they could do about the lack of power, and even if there was. This room, this bed, this moment had become the most important thing in the universe. They started kissing and stroking again.

As much as he enjoyed having his fingers in her pussy and her hands around his cock, John realized he’d much rather have his cock in her pussy and her pussy around his cock. He pulled his fingers out and began to move, starting to slide over her to get between her legs. She released him, her hands running up his sides. He reached for the condom he’d put on the bedside table and put it on, then slicked it just a bit. He raised up and felt his cock brush against her as he got into position. She reached down to take a hold of him and guide him into position. Almost there…his tip touching her lips. She pushed back a little, and he stopped- allowing her to guide their actions. She moved him up and down a bit, rubbing the head of his cock along her slit. She was so wet, and John couldn’t remember when he’d been as hard.

Another flash and bang of lightning, and that seemed to signal the right moment as she put him into position and let go. God how he wanted to just slam inside her, but he held back, moving slowly, allowing each of them to feel every inch as he slipped inside. He pushed in, momentarily overwhelmed by the sensation, but still able to control himself and the pace.

Then, he was all the way inside. He stopped and lowered himself down and wrapped his arms around her, pulling them together tightly. Her arms and legs encircled him and they began to rock together, moving and swaying together slowly, pressing and grinding. A slow dance, getting to know the feel of one another.

The storm outside intensified, and John and Sarah rolled right along with it. He moved his hands from her back upward, to grip around the back of her shoulders and to give himself more leverage to push against her. He barely pulled out, but dragged himself back and forth across her, the base of his cock rubbing her clit with every movement. She began to buck her hips up at him, and he began to pump in earnest.

He felt her hands scrabbling at his hips, pushing him away and he stopped. She gasped “No- just… move!” He backed up enough to let her slip a hand in between them. She flattened her palm against her mound and slipped one finger down to touch herself. Rolling her head back she let out a moan that shot straight to his cock. 

He couldn’t push all the way in with her hand there, but that was fine. He’d been so close, and this position let him pull back from the edge. He watched in amazement as she pleasured herself, not at all bothered that she was doing it. He knew that most women don’t climax from intercourse alone, and just wanted her to feel good. He knew he’d get there, she felt amazing wrapped around him, hot and slick and deep inside- he could feel her gripping and releasing him as she stroked.

He felt her start to jerk and began to push a little harder, feeling his balls slap against her even as they tightened with impending orgasm. Her breath came faster and oh the noises! He heard her moan, and whine, and gasp as she thrust against him, and he heard the wet slide of cock against pussy. Skin against skin, hot and sweaty and perfect.

She screwed her eyes shut and hissed her breath and inhaled, and he felt her brace her thigh muscles. For a moment, there was nothing, then there was everything. She released her breath with a cry and nearly bucked him off with the strength of her orgasm. She continued to rub her pussy as she shattered against him, and he was still restrained from pounding as he wanted. But she quickly moved her hand and grabbed at his hips. “Harder, John. Fuck me harder. Ungh…harder!”

John was never one to disobey an order, and lost himself between her thighs. He moved his hands to the front of her shoulders and pushed her torso against the bed, even as her legs wrapped around his hips. It didn’t take long and he was stuttering against her, coming deep inside as he grunted and moaned. The flashes of lightning illuminated them both- open mouthed, eyes screwed shut, lost in their own private storm as Mother Nature’s raged outside.

************************************

Saturday morning dawned grey and damp, much to John’s glee. He rolled over and stretched, then nuzzled Sarah’s neck. He loved morning sex, when everyone was muzzy and soft and bleary. No rush, no urgency, just heat and the slow burn. Fortunately Sarah did too, and they passed the time in the soft bed.

By lunchtime, not only were they starving, but the weather had cleared. John acknowledged that they couldn’t REALLY spend the ENTIRE time in bed, and they went out to explore the island. Lunch at a pub, then playing along the shoreline. Sarah found some shells and John watched the boats. 

Dinner was simple, some cheeses, crackers, wine and fruit they’d picked up at the market. Neither of them was eager to interact with a whole lot of people, and both were eager to get back to the room.

With the power outage the night before, they couldn’t charge their mobiles. While they fed each other grapes and giggled over glasses of wine, they plugged in their dead devices. 

After dinner, they stood on the balcony of their room and looked out over the Channel. Sarah’s summer dress floated in the breeze, and John got a wicked gleam in his eye. He moved back, then knelt behind her. She started to turn, but he wouldn’t let her. She laughed and kept looking out over the water. Slowly, he began running his hands under her skirt, up and down her legs, just skimming over her skin. She shivered at his touch. After a few minutes, he reached up and pulled off her panties, and she protested. 

“Shhh… you don’t want to draw attention to yourself, do you?“ John was well aware that while Sarah was visible to any passers-by, he was not, and took great delight in the knowledge.

Once her panties were down, he ran his tongue up and down the same path his fingers had just made. Gently, barely touching her, but raising goosebumps and making her shiver nonetheless.

Sarah spread her legs a little wider, and John moved to put his mouth on her ass. He loved, LOVED tasting his partners, he loved running his tongue over skin and feeling muscles beneath his teeth. He nipped and licked at Sarah’s ass cheeks until she began to moan and roll her hips.

“Shhh! People will hear you!” 

She shook her head and glared at him, the effect ruined by her smile.

Gradually he spread her cheeks and she gasped. He began running his tongue up and down her cleft, making her moan softly and writhe. Still licking, his fingers found her clit, stroking gently, getting her more and more into it. Finally, he began fucking her with the same fingers as he licked further and further down her skin.

After a few minutes her legs began to shake. He pulled his mouth away and said very quietly “Would you forget the balcony, end up pressed against the cool railing as I fucked you with my mouth and fingers? Would you come for me there? Or would you want more? Maybe I could stand up and fuck your ass. What do you want?”

“Don’t stop…” Sarah breathed. “Use your mouth and hands. Finish me!”

John chuckled and put his mouth back on her. He ran his tongue gently over her entrance and she gasped. He smiled and did it again, and again… each time brushing her clit with his thumb. 

Her legs began to shake again, and John reached up with his free hand to press on her back. She bent forward just a touch, and as he stroked her pussy and clit, he pushed his tongue into her. 

There was no doubt that anyone passing by would have known what was going on. Sarah’s breath broke out of her with a short cry, and she bucked back onto John’s tongue as she came. He continued working her clit until she begged him to stop, and he pulled his tongue back and began nuzzling her ass. Her legs still shook, so he stood up, gathered her into his arms and tumbled them both back into the room and back onto the bed.

While she dozed, he washed his face and grinned at himself in the mirror. Cocky, yes, but it ain’t boasting if you can back it up. God he loved sex and pleasuring people. Almost as much as he liked getting off himself. He was fine with her sleeping. For now. Tomorrow morning though…. He grinned again, went back into the room and crawled into bed.

******************************  
The next morning, John checked his messages on his newly-revived mobile. Two missed calls from Lestrade, one from Mycroft. He looked at Sarah’s phone- also a missed call from Mycroft’s number. John had never given anyone Sarah’s number.

His blood ran cold, as he dialed the Yard. 

“Greg? What’s…” 

His face turned pale and Sarah looked on anxiously.

“Sarah. I have to go back to London. Now. Sherlock’s disappeared.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's on the case... can he solve it without Sherlock?

“You’re going now?” Sarah sat up in bed, wrapped in the sheet.  
  
“I have to.”  
  
“No you don’t. He’s a big boy, and he’s got Scotland Yard AND big brother British Government looking for him. What are you going to do that they can’t?”  
  
John pondered that. She had a point. Greg Lestrade was the best detective he knew after Sherlock, and Mycroft was downright terrifying when he wanted to be. What on earth could John add?  
  
“I don’t know what I can add. But I have to go. I can’t stay, Sarah. Please understand.” John turned and started packing.  
  
“If you go, John, we’ll never know what we could have been.” Sarah looked sad.  
  
“Wait. You’re asking me to choose between you and my best friend, who’s gone missing? Sarah! You know… you should know, that I will always go when he needs me.”  
  
“But what if I need you here?”  
  
“It isn’t the same. Your life isn’t in danger, you’re not missing. You’re not possibly…” John couldn’t finish.  
  
“No, I’m none of those things, but mostly, I’m not HIM.” Sarah shook her head. “Go on. Keep in touch and let me know you’re ok. This discussion isn’t finished, but we can’t continue it now.”  
  
John hugged her, and kissed her cheek. He’d tried for her lips but she turned.  
  
He was on his mobile before the door even closed behind him. “Greg? Yeah mate. I’ll be on the next ferry and then the next train after that. Should be back in London in 2 hours- have someone pick me up at the station? Ta.”  
  
******************************************  
  
The ferry and train that took such a short time on the journey from London felt glacial as John made his way back to the city. He tried to figure out what had happened. Greg had given him some information, but he’d have to get the whole picture when he got to the Yard.  
  
He sighed, and looked out the window. Oh, Sherlock. What did you do?  
  
******************************************  
  
There was a sleek black town car waiting to pick John up at the station, surprisingly, Mycroft and Lestrade were both inside, next to each other on the broad back seat. John sat facing them.  
  
As they drove toward New Scotland Yard, the pair filled John in on what they knew.  
  
“The case was a total bust. We actually figured out most of it before Sherlock even arrived.” Lestrade looked abashed. “The corpses were BEARS. Himalayan Blue bears to be exact, never seen in Britain before. Turns out a collector with more money than conscience had them shipped here, beheaded and skinned them for their heads and pelts, and dumped the corpses in the river. Some poor git saw them floating near Hackney and called us. By the time I got there and saw what they were, it was too late to call off Sherlock.” Greg ran his hands over his face. “What a bloody scene that was. He was furious, lit the whole team up like bonfire night, and spared no feelings. He really is a right prat when you’re not around, John. Anyway- right in the midst of his tirade he got this look, like someone poleaxed him. He yelled “TAXIDERMY” and took off like a shot. Grabbed the first cab and that’s the last I saw of him. Must have been around 6pm Friday.”  
  
John turned to Mycroft. “What do you know?”  
  
“He left Detective Inspector Lestrade at about 6, as was mentioned. He traveled straight home, but stayed for only a few minutes before leaving again in the same cab and heading toward the Vauxhall Arches. My… capabilities in that area are limited, but we questioned the cabbie who confirmed the location. This was about 7:30 Friday evening. That was the last we saw Sherlock.”  
  
John sighed and looked out the window. “Alright. Change in plans. Take me back to Baker Street. Sherlock didn’t go to the Yard, so there’s no sense in me going there. Whatever he was working on was at home, so I’ll start with that. Greg- he’d had some cold cases. Any of them involve taxidermy?”  
  
Greg shook his head. “None that I recall, but who knows what connections he made.”  
  
John nodded. “Tell the driver to go faster, Mycroft. Get me home.”  
  
***************************************************  
  
The three men ran up the steps to 221B. John paused momentarily before trying the knob, hoping that it would be unlocked. Hoping that Sherlock would be inside.  
  
It wasn’t. He wasn’t.  
  
“Right then. Greg- the cold cases are on the desk by the window, Mycroft- check the kitchen for any experiments. Last I knew it was something with acid and fingertips. I’ll look in his room to start.”  
  
They searched, but nothing leapt out. John went to look at the cold case files with Lestrade. “OK. Taxidermy. Animals. Dead animals. Do any of these cases have anything to do with animals?”  
  
The DI shook his head. “The closest we come is teddy bears used for drug smuggling, but that case is years old. Solved, but the perpetrator was never caught, which is why I gave it to Sherlock.”  
  
John nodded. “Ok. Can you tell which one he was working on most recently? Has he written on anything?”  
  
They looked through the papers again, and Mycroft called from the kitchen.  
  
“It wasn’t JUST acid, John, it was Bascal-S, a deliming agent and pickle acid used in taxidermy. It looks like he was trying to separate the compounds found on these fingertips and stumbled onto it.”  
  
John and Greg looked at each other. “Fingertips? That means Molly.”  
  
*****************************************  
  
They found Molly in her office at St. Bart’s. She nodded when they asked her about the fingertips.  
  
“I had two bodies come in, both with very strange fingertips- they looked… dissolved. But not like from strong acid like sulfuric, and not like you’d see from hard work. These were recently damaged, and not very thorough. It seemed… deliberate, so I asked Sherlock what would have done it. He was helping me. I also found traces of methamphetamine on the bodies, but not as though they’d been taking it. More like they were making it.”  
  
Lestrade thought for a moment. “Were these the bodies we brought in on Tuesday? They were found dumped near Regent’s Park. Didn’t seem to be much beyond a couple of OD’s.”  
  
Molly smiled at Greg and said “That’s what it looked like, but that’s not what it WAS.”  
  
“So these bodies were made to look like OD’s, but weren’t. They were also stripped of their fingerprints, so chances are the Yard has them in their database somewhere. The damage was done with acid usually used in taxidermy, and they appear to have been manufacturing meth. Sounds interesting to me… I bet it was even more interesting to Sherlock.” John scratched his head. “Why Vauxhall Arches? What would his homeless network know?”  
  
He turned to the others. “Right. Take me there.”  
  
*************************************  
  
“You two had best stay in the car. Mycroft- you’re too posh to be seen down here, and Greg- well, you’re too copper. I’ve been down here before with Sherlock, so I should be ok. If I’m not back in 20 minutes, come in after me.” John stepped briskly from the car, hoping he would be recognized, hoping he could find someone to help. “Oh- Mycroft. Do you have a few fivers? I’m nearly out, and will need to grease the skids.”  
  
Mycroft opened a compartment in the car and pulled out some cash. He handed it to John with a sniff. “I don’t suppose you will be able to supply a receipt?”  
  
John grinned and walked away.  
  
Once down in the reeking arches, John looked for anyone familiar. A tall, pale, dark haired detective would be the best, but he’d settle for the mousy woman in the dingy parka they’d once talked to. It took about 10 minutes, but he found her, back against the wall as she sat warming her hands by a fire kindled in a can.  
  
“Got change for a fiver?” he said.  
  
“Why?”  
  
“I thought you might be able to give it to Sherlock Holmes. Heard he was looking for some taxidermy.” John hoped frantically that he was saying the right things.  
  
The mousy girl cocked her head and looked at him. “Who wants to give him change?”  
  
“I’m John, I’m his… I’m his friend.”  
  
“No you’re not. He’s talked about you. Here’s your change.” The girl had been writing while John struggled with his introduction, and handed him the tattered paper. He pressed the whole bundle of Mycroft’s money into her hand. “Thank you” he whispered, and jogged back to the car, wondering about what she’d said.  
  
****************************************  
  
105 Essex Road, Islington  
  
“That’s got to be where he went. From the looks of it, the storefront is attached to the warehouses behind, but there are three stories in the front, and who knows how much behind. We’re going to need help.” John sat and assessed the building in front of him. All his combat training was screaming that this was a bad idea, even with backup, but he didn’t know what else he could do besides go in.  
  
Especially if it meant getting Sherlock OUT.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The case of the dead bears is real: http://www.mirror.co.uk/news/uk-news/curious--unusual-deaths-834476  
> The taxidermy shop is real too- "Get Stuffed." I do not imply they do anything nefarious there, I just needed an address.


	4. Chapter 4

“I’m not going to even attempt to keep you out, but you go in with permission under ONE condition- you stay with me, preferably behind me, at ALL times.”  
  
Lestrade glared at John, hoping to drive his point home.  
  
John nodded quickly- once, set his mouth and swallowed. Captain Watson, hardened combat veteran, had arrived.  
  
The DI waved to the rest of the team and they went through the side door of the building.  
  
******************************  
  
Greg and John crept down the stairwell, toward the basement. At the bottom, all was dark, but for light under one door. The rest of the team had gone up, spreading out through the sprawling complex.  
  
“I’m asking this as a friend, not as a copper. Did you bring your gun?” Lestrade whispered.  
  
John nodded again, having already slipped his pistol out of the back of his jeans. He still hadn’t spoken a word, his mouth tight and his eyes hard.  
  
They approached the first door. John stood to one side and the DI slipped in, then followed hot on his heels. The room was big, square, and full of drug-making equipment. It looked like they got there just as it was being packed up, it was partially dismantled, some was in boxes. There were two men inside, with their backs to the door.  
  
John and Greg nodded at each other, and Greg yelled “Police! Stop what you’re doing and put your hands up!“ The men stopped, but turned quickly and charged. While John grappled with the first one, Greg disarmed the second. John’s slipped his grip and ran out the door. Greg threw some zip ties toward John and ran after.  
  
John used the zip ties to cuff the man to a supporting post in the center of the room. As he did, the man spoke.  
  
“Oi. ‘ere to get the bloody great Sherlock Holmes are you?”  
  
John didn’t reply, just made sure the man had enough circulation in his hands.  
  
“oohhh…” the man drawled. “So that’s how this is going to be. We’re playing good cop, bad cop now, eh? Well Mate, your buddy Bad Cop better hurry. Coz Sherlock Holmes might not be able to wait. Do you think we were stupid enough to keep ‘im here? You won’t find ‘im in time, Good Cop.”  
  
John stopped and turned.  
  
“Well that’s where you’re shit out of luck, _Mate_.” John ground the words out through clenched teeth. “The one that just left? He’s the good cop.”  
  
Before the thug could react, John flipped his pistol around, gripped it by the barrel and backhanded him across the face, then leaned in close and grabbed the man’s shirtfront.  
  
“I’m not even a cop.” He hissed. “I’m a doctor, and when I have a bad day, people die. You just better hope that Sherlock Holmes is not that person today, or you’ll be following him. I guarantee. Now- where is he?”  
  
*********************************  
  
By the time Lestrade returned, panting and bruised, John was standing calmly by the trussed thug, rubbing his knuckles and thinking. The criminal was out cold, bleeding from his nose, his lip, and a cut on the right side of his face. Lestrade raised his eyebrows.  
  
“He fell. Might want to call an ambulance, I think he broke a rib. Come on- he’ll be fine here, we have to get to the river, there’s a boathouse we need to surround.”  
  
Lestrade looked at his once-again unassuming friend, back at the delinquent bleeding on the floor, and shook his head. “Remind me never to piss you off, Mate.”  
  
*********************************  
  
The team surrounded the boathouse and rushed it. Inside they found a half-dozen more members of the meth ring, and after a quick gun battle (one drug-maker down, one policeman wounded) John was allowed in. He raced through the rooms, pistol out, eyes alert, scanning every opening, nook and cranny.  
  
Where was Sherlock?  
  
Down underneath, where the river lapped at the pilings, he found him. Sherlock was strung up by his arms, toes dangling in the water, passed out. John yelled for help then ran to cut Sherlock down.  
  
******************************  
  
“I’m going with him.”  
  
“You can’t go in the ambulance, John, it isn’t allowed.” Greg hated to say that, but it was the truth.  
  
The team was wrapping up at the boathouse, and Sherlock was in the ambulance.  
  
“I’m going. Get Mycroft to fix it if you have to, but I’m Sherlock’s doctor, I’m his friend, I’m his… I’m going.”  
  
He got into the ambulance and it roared off.  
  
*******************************  
  
“It’s bad, Doctor. He’s lost a lot of blood, it appears he has at least one broken rib on each side. Contusions everywhere. With the knot on his head I’d say he has a concussion, his eye response bears that out. He has a possible broken ankle, and by the swelling in his abdomen, there’s possible internal bleeding as well. He’s surely taken a beating.”  
  
John sat quietly as the ambulance raced through London’s streets. He held Sherlock’s hand and listened to the medical team list what was wrong. His blood roared in his ears and he wished he hadn’t taken it so easy on the thug at the taxidermy shop.  
  
Sherlock still hadn’t opened his eyes.  
  
********************************************  
  
John waited for Sherlock to get out of surgery. He dozed in the uncomfortable hospital waiting room chair, watched TV with no sound, drank innumerable cups of watery hospital coffee. By midnight he was exhausted and wired, starving and queasy. Had it only been that morning when he’d woken up with Sarah?  
  
Mycroft stopped in and tried to get John to go home. “There’s nothing you can do here, he’ll be unconscious when he gets out of surgery, and the medical team here can take care of him. If you wanted, we could helicopter you back to Wight and you could finish your mini-break with Dr. Sawyer.”  
  
John snorted with sad laughter.  
  
“I don’t think Sarah would be all that chuffed to see me, but thanks anyway. I’m staying right here.”  
  
“John…” Mycroft’s voice was uncharacteristically soft. “Do you know what you’re getting into?”  
  
“No idea whatsoever. But I can’t stop.”


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock’s hospital room was surprisingly noisy for a quiet one. The ding of the heart monitor, the hiss of the respirator, the hum of the IV pump.  
  
John dozed in yet another horrible chair, lulled by the sounds of the machines. Greg and Mycroft found him there at dawn.  
  
“John. Go home. Take a shower, get some rest. Sherlock is in a medically-induced coma, and they’re keeping him that way until at earliest tonight.” Greg put his hand on John’s shoulder. “You’re going to need your strength when they bring him out. You’ll be useless then if you stay here now.”  
  
Doctor Watson understood. John Watson had a harder time with it, but finally acquiesced. He let Mycroft’s towncar take him back to 221B.  
  
As he showered, Anthea slipped in to the flat and left a sandwich, then slipped out again. John didn’t question who left it, just ate it, and collapsed onto the sofa.  
  
When he awoke 9 hours later, it occurred to him that he should have been more curious.  
  
*******************************************  
  
Cotton wool. Clouds. Rabbits’ fur. Pillows. Water. Candy floss. Drugs.  
  
Ohhhh. Drugs. Someone’s given him drugs. Didn’t they know? They must have known. Lovely people. They knew just what he craved and gave it to him. Was it Christmas? His birthday? It must be. It must have been John. John knows. John knows without asking and they never talk about it. Lovely John. John knows.  
  
“Sherlock, are you awake?”  
  
Mmm. Nope. Not awake. Talk to me some more, John.  
  
“Sherlock, you’re becoming more conscious. Open your eyes.”  
  
?? Not John. John never demands. John says please. Lovely John.  
  
“Sherlock. Open your eyes now.”  
  
Mycroft. Mycroft is coming to take the drugs away. No more clouds, no more rabbit fur. Just umbrellas and spies and Mycroft.  
  
He concentrated. Couldn’t let Mycroft take the drugs away again. He opened his eyes.  
  
“Can’t take clouds. John gave. Candy floss and rabbit fur.”  
  
Mycroft sighed at hearing Sherlock’s gibberish. He hoped John would stay asleep for a little while longer, it was imperative that he speak to Sherlock before the doctor got back.  
  
“Sherlock, try to drink this.” He held water up to his brother’s lips, and waited while he sipped.  
  
“How do you feel?”  
  
The water cleared away some of the fluff, and Sherlock began to take stock. Body? Numb, but he could move. Brain? Fuzzy, but clearing.  
  
“Fur. Brain.” That didn’t sound right, but when he frowned up at Mycroft, he saw a brief smile.  
  
“That’s the anesthesia, and some other things. It should be wearing off soon, you’ve been out of surgery for several hours. You had us all worried, Sherlock. You took quite a beating, and required quite a bit of fixing up.”  
  
Oh. Not drugs. Not John. Wait. Where is John?  
  
“John?” His eyes beseeched Mycroft, panic welling.  
  
“John’s at home. He’s fine. Asleep. I had Anthea… assist in that matter. I needed to talk to you before he did. “ He sat on the uncomfortable chair. “I know you’re still recovering, but I need you to think about two things. First- what were you doing at that taxidermy shop alone?” His tone was sharp, and Sherlock closed his eyes to escape. “Second…” Mycroft’s tone softened. “You need to think about John. “  
  
Sherlock’s eyes flew open. “John? OK?” His brain was still too fuzzy, and he shook his head until it hurt.  
  
“John is physically fine, as I said. But Sherlock. He left his romantic mini-break with Dr. Sawyer early, and nearly beat a man to death to find you. He came close to blows with the medics who were trying to deny him access to your ambulance. He refused to leave your side all last night, and I had to have him drugged to keep him from returning here before he rested. Do you understand what I’m saying?”  
  
“Water.”  
  
Mycroft held the cup again as Sherlock drank.  
  
“John… angry?” Why couldn’t he form the words? What had happened to him? He shook his head again. “I’m hurt?”  
  
“You have two broken ribs, a sprained ankle, a concussion, and a broken nose. You have serious internal injuries, consistent with damage inflicted by fists and blunt objects- most likely a cricket bat. You required surgery to stop internal bleeding. You’re, unfortunately, drugged to the core right now or I assume you’d be in excruciating agony.”  
  
“Case?”  
  
Mycroft sighed dramatically. “Yes. You solved the case, Sherlock. DI Lestrade and his team caught the murderers, a drug ring and a shady taxidermist. Happy? “ He looked at his watch. “I have to go. John should be waking about now, and will be here within the hour. Think about what I said, Sherlock. You’re going to have to use more than your brain. Use your heart.”  
  
Mycroft slipped out of the room and Sherlock slipped back into unconsciousness.  
  
******************************  
  
John fumed in the cab all the way from Baker Street to the hospital. How could he have let himself get drugged like that? Bloody MYCROFT. Oh he’d bloody Mycroft alright. BLOODY HIS NOSE.  
  
John fumed in the lift all the way up to Sherlock’s floor. And GREG. Greg must have been in on it. What were those two doing collaborating? How did they even KNOW each other?  
  
He stopped outside Sherlock’s door to calm down. It would do no good to be angry in there, it wouldn’t help at all. He took a deep breath and stepped in.  
  
Sherlock was asleep, as he was when John left earlier, but he looked better. Not so pale, not so clammy. He’d regained some color and his breaths were even. John released the breath he’d been holding, and sat down. He reached for Sherlock’s hand and brought it to his forehead, holding it there for a moment before resting it back on the bed in both of hands. He leaned over and put his head on the rail at the side of the bed.  
  
“What am I going to do, Sherlock? I’m a mess. I thought I knew. I thought I could be happy with Sarah and with the way things were between you and me. And then you disappeared. I’m still so tired. Bloody Mycroft drugging me. I’m so confused and so tired. What am I going to do?”  
  
“C’mere. Sleep.” Sherlock mumbled, tugging at John’s hands gently.  
  
“Sherlock! You’re awake. I can’t…”  
  
“Shuddup. Sleep. Here. Talk later.”  
  
When the nurse checked in hours later, she found the doctor and the detective curled together in the narrow bed. She turned out the light, backed out, and called Mycroft.


	6. Chapter 6

John awoke, a little disoriented at first- strange bed, strange room. Sarah was cuddled up behind him and he sighed, remembering. The mini-break. The Isle of Wight. He snuggled back into the embrace and closed his eyes again.

The heart monitor beeped steadily.

Wait. 

Heart monitor?

His eyes shot open with the realization that it was Sherlock cuddled up to him, they were in his hospital bed and OH MY GOD.

As quickly as he could, he disentangled himself from the still-sleeping detective and slid from the bed.

He looked around the room frantically, had anyone seen? What was he going to do? Did Sherlock know or was he still blissfully drugged and unaware?

There was a Tesco bag on the uncomfortable chair, a note taped to it. John picked it up and read. “John- For when you awaken. -MH”

Toothbrush and paste, a comb, a clean shirt, a magazine, and a gift card for the closest coffee shop.

John sighed. Shit. So much for nobody seeing. On the plus side, though, at least Mycroft seemed OK with it.

He tidied himself up in the lav, and emerged just as Sherlock’s doctor walked into the room.

“Ah Doctor Watson. I’d hoped I’d see you here today. We’d thought we’d send Mr. Holmes home tomorrow morning, but ummm… Mr. M. Holmes reminded us that you’re a physician in your own right, as well as Mr. Holmes’ flat mate. At this point, he really doesn’t need advanced medical care, but more monitoring and rest. Would you be able to provide that?”

John agreed and they discussed some care tips and things to watch out for. 

“Right then. Assuming he’s lucid when he awakes, we’ll be releasing him at about 3pm. We’d have released him yesterday, but the anesthesia didn’t wear off as quickly as we’d hoped. He woke a few times, and spoke, but didn’t remember anything afterwards. It isn’t a worry, just a bit of an anomaly on his chart.”

At the doctor’s assurance that Sherlock wouldn’t be waking anytime within the next half hour or so, John went and redeemed his gift card, thanking Mycroft silently for the reprieve from the dreadful hospital coffee.

On his return to Sherlock’s room, he sat, read his magazine, and waited.

*****************************************  
“John?”

John put the magazine down and stood by the side of Sherlock’s bed. “I’m here, how do you feel?” 

Sherlock started to think. John could see him cataloguing his body.

“I feel… painful. My ribs, my ankle, my chest, my back. Everything hurts, John. What happened? What day is it? When do I go home?”

John’s voice caught in his throat. He knew that Mycroft had been here, and talked with Sherlock yesterday. It was on his chart. Obviously this is what the doctor had mentioned, that the anesthesia jumbled Sherlock’s memories.

“You were badly injured, Sherlock. You have broken ribs, your ankle is damaged, you had to have surgery to stop internal bleeding. Today is Wednesday. You can go home today, if you think you’re up for it.”

“Wednesday? You’re joking. That would mean I was out for four days. Ring for the nurse. I’m in no mood for jokes.”

John sighed, partly relieved that the stroppy part of Sherlock was feeling fine, but mostly saddened that he had been so abused. He was also relieved to know that Sherlock obviously didn’t remember John’s… indiscretion from last night. Only Mycroft and the staff did, and John could handle that.

He rang for the nurse.

*****************************************

“Sixteen annnd seventeen. Here we go.”

“I know where we are, I know how many steps there are to my own FLAT. Stop treating me like an invalid.” Sherlock was fuming. His chest was wrapped tightly to ease the pain in his ribs, he was using crutches to keep off his ankle, the incision in his left side itched and his head was pounding. All he wanted was to stop feeling terrible.

“For the time being, you ARE an invalid, Sherlock. Please don’t be angry when I’m just helping. We’ll get you inside, settle you in bed and”

“NO. I’m going to the sofa. If you are all to be believed, I’ve been in bed for days already. I do not wish to spend any more time there.” Sherlock knew the hospital staff was right, logically, but he couldn’t trust it yet. His brain was still fuzzy around the edges, and he couldn’t trust it either. Until he could, he had to treat everything with skepticism.

“Fine. Sofa it is then.” John wrangled his gangly patient onto the sofa, and helped him remove his coat. The original Belstaff had been ruined, but another had appeared in the hospital room. Mycroft.

“I’m going to make you some soup, and you’re going to eat it. Soon it’ll be time for your next round of meds, so you’ll need something in your stomach.” John hung the coat on the hook and made his way into the kitchen.

“I’m not hungry. I had my fill of the delectable hospital cuisine thank you very much.” Sherlock sniffed and flung himself over, by habit. 

The sharp cry and subsequent groan of pain brought John running from the kitchen.

“Jesus Sherlock! You can’t just…”

John stopped when he saw Sherlock’s face, pale with pain and surprise, his mouth open and panting with the exertion of not crying out more. His eyes were full of agony as he looked up.

“Oh shit. Let me help you.” He rushed to the sofa, and gently helped Sherlock recline. “You’ve got to breathe, evenly. No gasping.” He ran his hands gently under Sherlock’s shirt, over his ribcage, testing the bandages and the breaks. That seemed fine. Then the bandage over his incision… it was loose. He pulled up the shirt and was not surprised to see fresh blood seeping out.

“Alright. You’ve opened up your incision. I’ll see if I can patch it up, if not, we’re back to the hospital. Stay here and be quiet.” He went into the bathroom, washed his hands, and brought out his med kit. On his return to the sitting room, he knelt by the sofa. “I’m going to have to take your shirt off, can you sit up a bit?”

Sherlock moved, gasped, and shook his head in a near panic. He didn’t speak.

John sighed and got out the scissors. He figured if he really tried he could get the shirt off without cutting it, but he didn’t want to put his friend in any more pain than necessary.

“Right then. Off it goes.” It was a good thing it wasn’t one of Sherlock’s favorite shirts. 

Once the shirt was history, John pulled the dressing back from the surgical incision. It looked like a stitch had popped, fortunately nothing serious. He washed the area, and pulled out his stitch kit. “This is going to hurt a bit, since I don’t have anything to numb the area. I’m sorry to have to do this.” He’d stitched Sherlock before without anesthesia, because Sherlock always refused it. But this time was different. John bit his lip and went to it, adding an extra stitch, just in case.

When he was done, Sherlock was sweating and panting again. It took all John’s willpower not to take the detective in his arms and rock him to sleep. Instead he pressed his hand to the dark curls and said very softly “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He inhaled deeply and bit off what he almost said. I’m sorry I wasn’t there with you. I’m sorry I didn’t stay. I’m sorry I let you down. 

Instead he stood, and went back to the kitchen to prepare the soup. 

************************************

Bloody great idiot. Now look what you’ve done. You’ve gone and had a snit and injured yourself more. God the pain. Why does this HURT so much more than it has in the past? Why does everything hurt.

And now John’s worried. Sherlock could tell by the look on the doctor’s face when he realized what Sherlock had done. His surgical incision had opened. The barrier keeping the outside out, and Sherlock’s insides IN had been breached. It needed repair.

The stab of the needle was usually nothing more than an annoyance, but this time… ohhhh this time it hurt. It was fire, it was ice, it was painful. Sherlock bit his lip and nearly hyperventilated. He was an idiot. Why did he DO that?

And then, mercifully, it was done. The area still ached, but John had promised painkillers if he’d have some soup. Sherlock the addict would do anything to get those painkillers. He thought about that for a moment, frantic, panting, feeling the need swim up like a fish from the bottom of the ocean. Then John’s hand was on his hair, and he was speaking so softly that Sherlock worked to concentrate. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

The need retreated. 

Why was John sorry? It was Sherlock’s fault he was in this mess, John was actually making it better. His touch was so… Sherlock’s brain was still not right. He couldn’t figure out what it was about John’s touch and voice that made things better. He’d figure it out later. After the soup.

*********************************

Thursday morning.

“John, I am perfectly capable of bathing myself.”

“Under normal circumstances, I’d wholeheartedly agree. But right now you can’t stand unaided, and you can’t sit in a tub for fear of submerging your incision. Your choices are have me help you, or wallow in your own stench. I cannot believe I’m saying this, but my vote is for less stench.”

Sherlock groaned and nodded. Days of torture, plus days of hospitalization had left him fairly rank, even though the nurses had cleaned him up some. He could barely stand himself.

He hobbled off on his crutches toward the bathroom. “I’ll call you when I’m ready.”

John nodded, steeling himself. He was a doctor. He was a doctor and he’d be providing care to a patient. Nothing more. He went to his room and got out of his clothes and into his dressing gown. He kept his pants on. By the time he made it back downstairs, he heard the shower running and heard Sherlock call.

Right. Into the breach.

Sherlock was thin and pale in the harsh fluorescent light of the bathroom. He balanced on one foot, with one hand on the sink. The other held a towel around his hips. “I assume we’ll have to remove the bandages from around my ribs?”

John swallowed and nodded. The week’s traumas had robbed Sherlock of what little extra body fat he’d had stored up. He looked… fragile. 

John stepped forward and around, so he could get to Sherlock’s back, and began unwinding the dressing. He hadn’t seen Sherlock’s torso in the hospital, and gasped at the horrific bruising. Sherlock heard it, and glanced in the mirror. 

“Oh.” 

They both stood, wide eyed and staring at the signs of damage smeared across the pale skin. 

Sherlock looked down, and carefully touched the bruises, as if he couldn’t quite decide if they were real. “I don’t remember. I don’t know how this happened.” His eyes met John’s in the mirror. “John. I DON’T REMEMBER.” There was panic in his voice and lightning in his eyes. He began to tremble.

“Shhh… you’re alright now. You’re here, and you’re healing up. Let me help you.” John ran his hands over Sherlock’s shoulders gently. “Don’t worry. We’ll get you cleaned up, then into bed and we can talk about this later. One thing at a time. Concentrate on what we’re doing now.” His hands brushed down Sherlock’s arms and he stepped closer into Sherlock’s back, his lips close to Sherlock’s neck. His dressing gown brushed up against the curve of Sherlock’s arse and John leaned in, his eyes closed. “Shhh… relax…mmm.” Everything was quiet and comfortable. The rhythm of Sherlock’s breathing had stilled and he lolled his head back, resting it on the top of John’s. 

Wait. Dressing gown. Sherlock’s arse.

John started, and stepped back. The spell was broken, and both men flushed. “Um. Feeling a bit better?” John sputtered. “Let’s get you into the shower then.”

They managed to get Sherlock into the shower without meeting each other’s eyes. John stood outside the enclosure, there was no way he could go through with his original plan of getting in now, and Sherlock did his best to remain upright inside. While Sherlock held John’s shoulders, the doctor grabbed the flannel and the soap and made efficient work of his back and legs, with a cursory brush over his arse. John moved and Sherlock shifted his grip, turning to face his flat mate. John ran the flannel over the bruised ribs and gently past the incision. When there was nothing left to do but Sherlock’s crotch, he said “Let’s wash your hair now.” 

Sherlock knew what John was avoiding, and the thought made him grin. He bit it back and nodded, reaching for the shampoo as best he could. He tilted his head back and let the water rush down his face.

John was stunned. Sherlock’s neck was stretched impossibly long, and the water slicked his hair back. His mouth dropped open and his eyes closed. Is this what he looked like during… well… DURING?

John had to shake himself back to reality. He was a doctor. He was helping a patient, nothing more. He poured shampoo into his palm and reached up to wash the sopping curls.

Lather. Think of Margaret Thatcher. Rinse. Think of cricket. Repeat. Think of maths. Anything to keep his mind off his wet, lanky flat mate under his hands.

There was one place left. John sighed and handed Sherlock the flannel. “I’ll hold you under your arms, you get… yourself.”

Sherlock turned away and washed.

“Alright then? Out you go. Here’s your towel and your robe- are you ok to finish up? I’ll go get your medicine and meet you in your room.” John practically fled the bathroom.

***************************************************

Once Sherlock was fully ensconced in his bed, stuffed with more soup and painkillers, John felt he could breathe again. He felt as though he’d dodged a bullet in the shower, he was able to get himself under control before Sherlock SAW. He shook his head. WHAT THE HELL. 

He heard Sherlock call, and went in to see him.

Sherlock‘s eyes were hard. “John. I need you to tell me what you know about what happened to me, then I need you to get the police reports from Lestrade. I don’t want anything held back. I’m missing time. I need it back. It’s MINE.”

John nodded and sat in the chair next to the bed. He told Sherlock about the bears, and the taxidermy revelation. He filled in what he knew about Sherlock’s beatings from what Lestrade had told him. He talked about how they’d gone to the taxidermy shop, then the boathouse, deliberately leaving out the ‘John-centric’ parts, even against Sherlock‘s wishes. He told him about how they’d gotten him to the hospital.

By the time he was done, Sherlock was dozing and John breathed a sigh of relief. He wasn’t up for questions just yet. He crept from the room and texted Lestrade.

**************************************

“Greg. Thanks for coming, Mate. I need to get to the clinic and have a talk with Sarah. This week has been right bollocks all the way around with her. God knows if I even still have a job, I‘m pretty sure I don‘t still have a girlfriend. You’ll be ok staying with Sherlock for a while?”

Lestrade nodded and gave John a sympathetic look. “Sorry, good luck with your talk.”

John shrugged and went down the stairs.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our boys finally figure it out.
> 
> Infinite thanks to DC for help on this chapter.
> 
> On a side note, how are you guys feeling about a little Mystrade? SarJohnLock?

John walked out of the clinic, shaking his head, trying to digest the conversation he’d just had. He still had a job, thankfully, and still had a girlfriend, sort of. He thought. He wasn’t quite sure what Sarah was getting at, but she’d agreed to see him again, after Sherlock had healed. There was a gleam in her eye as she smiled at him and shooed him out the door.  
  
Interesting.  
  
His phone dinged. “Both Lestrade AND Mycroft? Haven’t I been tortured enough this week? -SH”  
  
He laughed. The text told him two things- first- that Sherlock was feeling better, and second- that there was NO way he was going back to the flat just yet. Pub first.  
  
Two pints and one hour later, laden with Chinese takeaway (pork fried rice for him, egg drop soup for Sherlock) John stepped into 221B. Greg had texted that Sherlock had fallen back asleep, so he and Mycroft had left. Once again, John wondered how the two had gotten so chummy…  
  
Sherlock was sprawled on the couch, one arm flung up covering his eyes. His knees were drawn up, and John could see his pale toes scrunched into the cushions. He looked comfortable, but cold to John’s eye.  
  
John drew the blanket over Sherlock, then settled down to eat his dinner.  
  
****************************************  
  
He awoke with a start, alerted by movement and a gasp from the sofa. Sherlock was sitting up, looking fairly mussed, but better than he had since he came home from the hospital.  
  
“John, there’s no need to sleep in your chair. I’m perfectly fine. I don’t need watching.”  
  
John rolled his shoulders and stretched. “I wasn’t asleep, I was dozing. I nodded off after dinner- food coma. Do you want yours? I got egg drop soup for you.” Without waiting for an answer he went to the kitchen to heat up the soup. “I thought we’d wait a few days before trying anything spicy. I know you’re tired of plain broth, and want actual food, but you’re still really weak internally. This will be a good compromise.”  
  
He turned to take the soup out to Sherlock, but jumped when he saw the detective standing in the kitchen.  
  
“Cor, Sherlock. You gave me a fright. Almost made me spill. Now sit down since you’re in here, and eat up.”  
  
Sherlock sat, and ate, and watched. John bustled, and cleaned, and thought. He finally pulled down a glass and got Sherlock’s meds.  
  
“Why didn’t you tell me what you did?”  
  
John turned slowly. “Um. I did. You must have forgotten with the anesthesia and all. I told you that Mycroft figured out the taxidermy connection and we talked to a homeless person and went into the taxidermy shop. Then we went to the boathouse. I told you.” He set the glass and the pills on the table, but remained standing.  
  
“Yes, I remember you telling me that. What I don’t remember is you telling me that you left Sarah alone on the Isle of Wight, that you went down into Vauxhall alone, that you beat someone nearly to death to gather information on where to find me, that you were the one who found me at the boathouse, that you were the one who cut me down and carried me out, that you nearly came to blows when told you couldn’t ride in the ambulance with me and lastly- that you slept in my hospital bed with me, after my surgery.” His voice had risen steadily, and he was nearly shouting.  
  
John blanched and made to step away, but Sherlock reached out and grabbed his wrist. “You saved me, John.” Sherlock’s voice was quiet, and he looked intently into his flat mate’s face. “Why didn’t you tell me?”  
  
John clenched his jaw, looked at the ceiling, and swallowed. For a moment, Sherlock wasn’t sure he’d respond, but then he let out a great sigh and sat down at the table.  
  
“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to know. Sort of. No- don’t talk.” He cut Sherlock off. “I’m always tagging along, always two steps behind and to the side. You’re so brilliant and so fast, I can barely keep up. This sort of thing? Planning an incursion, using brawn instead of brain? That’s what I can do. So I did it, and I was kind of… I don‘t know. Proud. I planned it, I did it, I got you out.”  
  
“Why do you take care of me like this? The diversions to keep me from being bored, to keep me from traveling down the dark path, yes I know about Operation Bad Cop,” Sherlock smiled gently.  
  
“How did you know…?” John shook his head. “Nevermind. I don’t want to know.”  
  
“Then the feeding, the prodding to sleep? Is it because you think I’m not capable?” It could have been a barbed question, full of scorn, but Sherlock was genuinely curious.  
  
“That’s the other part of what I do. I’m a doctor. I keep people healthy.”  
  
“And why did you sleep with me?”  
  
“You told me to.” John smiled, knowing Sherlock had no recollection. “I was just sitting by the side of the bed, and you told me to get in and sleep.”  
  
Sherlock regarded him warily. “Why would I do that? What else was going on? You know I’ll find out, so just tell me.”  
  
John’s smile faded and he sighed again. He clenched his jaw and swallowed again. Instead of looking at the ceiling, he looked at his hands as he spoke quietly. “I was holding your hands, talking to you. Telling you how confused I was, and how tired, and how I didn’t know what to do. You woke up and told me to get in bed and sleep, that we’d talk later.” He looked up at Sherlock. “Guess we finally got to that part, eh?”  
  
The kitchen suddenly seemed too bright, to harsh, all sharp edges and tile. John was desperate to move somewhere softer, darker, but didn’t want to break the spell he and Sherlock were weaving.  
  
Sherlock sat, still and silent. His eyes were focused on a point somewhere between them, and John recognized the look. He took the moment to push the water and the meds across the table. “Don’t forget these.”  
  
Sherlock still didn’t move, and John resigned himself to a quiet evening. He stood to go.  
  
“The most puzzling thing about all of this is the rashness of your actions. Here you are, planning a whole campaign to keep me from making a rash decision- the diversions, the food, the… caring, but yet, you willingly went down into one of the dodgiest areas in London, alone. You beat a man senseless to gain information, you were willing to resort to violence against fellow medical personnel. These are all very rash actions. You are not a rash person, John, what...”  
  
“Because it was YOU. Because I was trying to save YOU. I would break every law, every bone in someone’s body, go through hell to make sure you were ok. There. Are you happy? I thought I’d be happy with Sarah, and trust me- she’s great. She’s smart and sexy and fantastic in bed. I could spend days learning her skin, and even longer learning her taste. The sex was amazing, the time we spent together was amazing. But the moment, the SECOND I heard your name from Lestrade’s mouth I couldn’t leave her fast enough. Shit. I left her in bed. Naked. Begging me to stay. I was out the door before I’d even puckered up for a proper goodbye kiss. And then that man. He was so sure you’d die before I got to you. So sure I was soft and kind and wasn’t a threat. A good cop, unable to step over the line. I showed him I was able, yeah. I beat it out of him. I told him if you died, so would he and I pistol whipped him, broke his ribs and beat him to the point of unconsciousness to drive my point home. Because he, or someone in his organization, threatened YOU. And I climbed in your bed happily. Eager to feel your breathing, to reassure myself that you were alive. So tell me, Mr. Consulting Detective. What does that all mean?” John was pacing, red faced. He stopped and turned to Sherlock. “Tell me what it means.”  
  
Sherlock stood, and took John by the arms. “It means,” he said gently “that it’s time we did this.”  
  
His kiss was light on John’s lips. Soft and dry, just a press of warmth without heat. Both kept their eyes open- John’s wide with surprise, Sherlock’s soft, like his kiss.  
  
He pulled back and waited for John to respond.  
  
John breathed deeply and thought for a moment, then leaned in for another kiss. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s skinny torso, but dropped them when Sherlock gasped. “Oh shit, I’m sorry, I…”  
  
Sherlock shushed him and smiled. “Let’s go to the sofa.”  
  
He held out a hand, and John took it, but not before grabbing the water and the meds. He wasn’t going to let Sherlock weasel out of taking them.  
  
*************************************  
  
They settled themselves on the sofa, one at each end, feet tangled in the middle. Sherlock took his meds and drank his water, and then they looked at each other awkwardly.  
  
“Sherlock…” “John, I…” Nervous laughter. “You first.” “No- go ahead.”  
  
Sherlock spoke. “John, I am, to borrow a phrase, pants at this sort of thing. I had proto-relationships in the past, not even really worthy of being called relationships, and they all ended quickly. I hate to say it, but it took my brother’s meddling to make me understand what I have here, with you. It’s all the things my past… encounters were missing. Caring, comfort, friendship, acceptance. I don’t know if I can change how I am to make it easier, but I’m willing to try.”  
  
“You daft git. I don’t need you to change. I like you the way you are, though if you wanted to, you could wash the dishes more often.” John smiled. “My relationships haven’t been all that stellar either. I’d hoped to fix that with Sarah, and if you hadn’t gone and gotten yourself kidnapped, I might have made a good show of it.”  
  
Sherlock began to protest, but John held up a hand.  
  
“No- that’s not what I mean. I mean that I would have stayed with her, and I would have gone through the motions of being in a happy relationship. I might have even meant it. But it wouldn’t have been what I deep down NEEDED. All the way back from Wight I thought about how I’d feel if I lost you, and then I thought about how I’d feel if I lost Sarah. There’s no comparison. I’d feel sad about her but… well, if I lost you I’d be lost myself. So. There you have it. You’re the greatest relationship of my life, Sherlock Holmes. And I have no idea what to do.”  
  
Sherlock smiled and put down the water glass. Very carefully, still mindful of his ribs and his other injuries, he knelt up on the sofa, then stretched out, front to front, on John. He nuzzled his face into John’s jumper and spoke. “Idiot. You keep on doing what you’ve always done. Take care of me. But now I believe there will be additional duties.”  
  
He raised his head and winked, at the same time pressing his hips against John’s legs.  
  
John furrowed his brow, the realization dawned. “You’d better be careful… you’ll open your incision again. As much as I relish the thought of additional duties, I don’t think you mean more stitching up just yet.”  
  
The pressing stopped and Sherlock nodded, deep in thought. “Alright then. Let me take care of you for a moment.” He slid back, putting his face in John’s crotch. He looked up and winked again and John could have sworn that every drop of blood in his body rushed to his cock.  
  
Sherlock carefully undid the button, then the zipper, on John’s jeans and pushed them down. John raised his hips as much as he was able, and Sherlock made quick work of the pants too.  
  
John shivered as Sherlock laid his head down, his cheek on John’s rapidly hardening cock. Neither man moved. Sherlock lay there quietly, breathing in John’s scent, and John tilted his head back, relishing the closeness.  
  
After a minute, Sherlock began to move. He ran his nose up and down the crease where John’s leg met his hip. He nuzzled John’s balls, he nipped gently at his thighs, all the while avoiding the place John most wanted him to touch.  
  
When John finally put his hands in Sherlock’s hair and whispered “please…” Sherlock relented. He ran his tongue up slowly from balls to tip, before pausing with his mouth wrapped around the head of John's cock, holding loosely, not tight.  
  
Looking up to make and hold eye contact for a few delicious moments. Letting his eyes and his gaze become the dominant sensation. That feeling of longing and sharing of pleasure, that was getting as much pleasure from the giving as the other. John was amazed at the realization that Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes- “Relationships aren’t my area” wanted him. Wanted to please him, to BE with him. He shuddered, then a sudden smooth drop down his shaft made him gasp. Not all the way to the bottom, but enough that Sherlock’s mouth was enveloping him.  
  
John had been on the receiving end of many blowjobs before, and each one was different, some better than others, but this one put them all to shame. Sherlock’s tongue running up and down the shaft, slowly, deliberately, never breaking that singular gaze. He avoided John’s balls for now, focusing entirely on his mouth on John’s cock.  
  
Sherlock's mouth continued to move up and down slowly. Deliberate motions, lips dragging against the skin of John's cock in agonizingly drawn out fashion. His hands, relatively idle up until now, twitched of their own accord. There were more ways to touch, obviously. One of his hands moved, and as it drew close to John, the motions of his mouth slowed and grew shallower. His fingertips met the skin of John's cock and he lightly touched him, beginning to move in tandem with his mouth. Now the backs of his fingers, nails softly along in arcs that met up with the downward motion of his mouth.  
  
It was all so slow, so languid. John felt as though he was sinking into Sherlock, melting. It wasn’t the frantic, lust driven meeting of a one night stand, this felt… life changing. He looked down and watched his cock slide in and out of Sherlock’s plush lips and gasped. The heat that had been simmering flamed up and John began to roll his hips.  
  
Sherlock caught the hint and closed his eyes, the urge overtaking him as well. He hollowed his cheeks and let John thrust upwards into his mouth, creating suction where before there had just been warmth.  
  
John’s hands tightened in Sherlock’s hair as they moved against each other, Sherlock moaned at the sensation and John shuddered. “Sherlock, I’m close…”  
  
Sherlock nodded, sliding one arm behind John to pull him in closer. John’s head fell back and he held his breath. One more thrust and he was lost. Over the edge, gasping and moaning Sherlock’s name, his body jerking with each pulse into the soft mouth.  
  
Sherlock released his mouth, allowing John's slick and softening cock to fall back onto his abdomen. He paused, looking at it as it rested there, as if studying or memorizing its details. His hand reached to it. His fingers touched it, not so much appraisingly as inquisitively. Then softer, strokes that just barely touched the skin. Up, then back down, every inch falling subject to his touch. Hand turning over now, backs of his fingers taking the place of his fingertips to repeat the same explorations. John squirmed a bit, still sensitive.  
  
Sherlock looked up now, an intent expression as he studied John's face as he continued to move, gauging the effects of every motion, every part of the touch. Finally John reached and put his hands over Sherlock’s, stilling them, and closed his eyes.  
  
Sherlock put his head back down on John’s stomach. “I think you’re going to have to close out Operation Bad Cop” he murmured.  
  
“Hmmm?” John was still too blissed out for a proper response.  
  
“I seem to have found a new addiction.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't leave them hanging...

“John?”

John didn’t open his eyes. “Hmmm?” He snuggled his face onto Sherlock’s thighs as he lay across the couch, dozing while Sherlock wandered his Mind Palace.

“It’s been two weeks. I think I’m healed up by now.” He reached down and stroked John’s hair.

“Hmmm.” It was more a purr than an answer.

“I’d like to… John? Are you happy?”

John’s eyes opened and he sat up abruptly. “Of course I’m happy. What are you getting at?”

“You don’t touch me. I mean, you touch me, but you don’t… we haven’t… I want…” Sherlock broke off, frustrated by his stammering, hoping that John understood anyway. They hadn’t done anything sexually intimate since that memorable blowjob on the couch.

John sighed, and gathered his thoughts. “Sherlock, I am happy. YOU make me happy. I’m just still… still trying to wrap my head around this. I’ve never been with a man before, you know that. And I want to be with you for as long as you’ll have me. I’m just anxious about the physical part. I don’t know that I want to… DO… all that.” It seemed that stammering was contagious. He couldn’t look at his partner. He loved Sherlock, he knew that, but whenever he pictured more than kissing, he froze up.

“Do you trust me?”

John’s head jerked up. “Of course I do.”

“Then come with me.”

John took Sherlock’s hand and they walked into the bathroom. Sherlock turned on the taps and started a bath, added bubbles.

“Take off your clothes, and get in the tub.”

John raised an eyebrow, but complied. He sank into the heat and the foam and sighed. As he did, Sherlock removed his own shirt and slacks, but kept his pants on. He got a clean flannel from the cupboard and wet it. Slowly, he began to run the cloth over John’s shoulders and the back of his neck.

“mmm. That’s nice, Sherlock, thank you.”

They continued like that for a few minutes, Sherlock gently stroking John’s skin with the cloth, steam swirling in the small room. Quiet.

When John was fully relaxed, Sherlock stopped. “Take a few minutes more to soak, and then come into the bedroom. Don’t let the water get cold, you’ll tense up again.”

John nodded, nearly asleep. He felt Sherlock’s lips on his forehead and smiled.

*************************************************

While John relaxed, Sherlock went into the bedroom to prepare. He turned off the overhead light and turned on the bedside lamp. He turned down the bedding and fluffed up the pillows. He tucked a bottle of lube within arm's reach. Perhaps some music? He dug around in the sitting room until he found John’s iPod and set it to play something quiet, instrumental. 

He surveyed his handiwork, and frowned. Too bright. He needed this to be perfect.

He rummaged again and came up with some emergency candles. Grabbing a few glasses from the kitchen, he used melted wax to affix the candles inside, and set the makeshift lanterns around the room. Perfect. Enough light to see, to throw interesting shadows, but nothing harsh. Perfect.

*************************************************

John emerged from the bathroom in a swirl of steam. Pink and still damp, wet hair spiking. He was wearing only a towel around his waist and a grin. 

“Sherlock! This is nice… romantic. I didn’t know you had it in you.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and grabbed the towel. He got onto the bed, still in his pants, and sat against the headboard, his legs spread wide.

“Come sit here with me.”

John’s eyebrow raised again, and Sherlock could see him swallow nervously. “Trust me, John. Please.” 

John nodded and crawled to sit in between Sherlock’s legs. He was painfully aware of his nudity compared to Sherlock and he swallowed again.

“Put your back to me, and lean against my chest.”

Oh. This was better. He didn’t have to see Sherlock’s face then, or be distracted by his skin.

John sank back and relaxed again in Sherlock’s embrace.

They sat for a moment, breathing and acclimating. John could feel Sherlock’s heart beating against his back, and became aware that his slowed to match. He felt heavier with each exhale and finally sighed in contentment.

That must have been what Sherlock was waiting for, because he began to run his hands over John’s arms and chest. Gently, not much more than brushing his fingertips over John’s skin. John’s eyes opened and his breathing quickened. Sherlock continued the gentle touches until John relaxed again. 

Once John was again comfortable, Sherlock increased the pressure of his caresses. A little lower, a little closer to John’s nipples… enough to hint, but not enough to distress. He needed to know what John would accept. But he was patient, surprisingly so. He took his time, knowing that this was too important to rush, knowing that he was forming their future with his hands.

“How are you feeling?” His whisper sounded too loud in the quiet room and he winced, but John remained relaxed.

“mmmm…fine. This is lovely.”

Sherlock continued his gentle explorations of John’s torso. He’d seen it before, but never in this manner, and he’d never touched it. So different than his own slender, pale frame, John’s chest was still stocky from enlistment, skin still golden from exposure to the Afghan sun. The scar stood out angrily, and Sherlock ghosted his fingers over it, curious to know more, but aware that this wasn’t the time to probe. “Exquisite. No, that sounds fragile. You’re striking, you’re fascinating, you’re wonderful and so sexy. I can’t find the right words…” 

He could see John flush at his praise, and more interestingly- could see John’s cock twitch. 

“I mean it. Even if we never progress beyond this, you’re still the sexiest, most captivating person I’ve ever met. I want you to be happy. I want to make you happy. I want you make you feel good. I want to make you feel good like THIS, but I’ll only continue if it’s what you really want. May I?”

He held his breath, and stilled his hands low on John’s belly. Waiting.

After an eternity, days? Hours? Breaths… John nodded. “Yes.”

Sherlock breathed again, against John’s ear, and smiled to see the reaction in John’s cock. He moved his hands down John’s thighs as far as he could, palm to skin, pressing as far as he could reach. Then back up to John’s shoulders, crossing so that he ended up wrapping him tightly in an embrace. As his arms tightened, so did his legs, engulfing his blogger, feeling as much as he could.

John smiled and put his hands tentatively on Sherlock’s thighs as they pressed against his own.

Agreement. Touching. Sherlock gave a light squeeze, and moved his hands back down to John’s inner thighs, nails lightly scratching the delicate skin.

John gasped and moved his hips, his cock now almost fully hard. Sherlock leaned into his neck and tasted… tasted the skin behind John’s ear, down his neck, across his shoulder. Just tasting. John writhed some more and Sherlock breathed into his ear again. “Mmmm… you. You taste good. Like tea and gunpowder and salt. I want to taste you everywhere.”

John’s head lolled back against Sherlock’s shoulder, and he squirmed gently, his cock at full attention.

“I’m going to touch your cock, I want to feel you in my hands, I want to stroke you while you’re in my arms, is that ok?” Sherlock’s already deep voice was barely more than a vibration against John’s back at that point. John nodded again, breathing heavily.

Sherlock kept his left hand on John's thigh, and moved his right to gently encircle John's cock. A moan from John at the touch drew one from Sherlock as well, and for a moment neither man moved. Sherlock had had John in his mouth before, but this... this was more. More intimate, more exciting, closer and deeper. The thought made his breath catch and his eyelids flutter. 

He began to move his hand slowly up and down John's hard shaft. John gasped and let his knees fall wider. "Ohhh Sherlock. That's good." He rolled his hips in response.

"Good. This is wonderful, John. We could do this every night for the rest of our lives and I'd be happy. God. The feel of you in my arms, pressing against me... the sounds you're making... I'm hard, John, I'm hard for you," Sherlock pushed his hips against John's back gently, proving his words. "But you never have to do any more than this. I've never wanted anyone before, in any way, and I'll take whatever you give me, just let me keep touching you."

He gripped John's cock a little tighter, and reached for the lube with his free hand. He popped it open and spread some on his hand and John's shaft, smiling at the gasp John let out.

After a moment of stroking, he moved his hand down to John's balls and coated them with lube as well. He wanted desperately to explore further back, to feel John from the inside as well as the outside, but he couldn't reach without disturbing the position, and he didn't want to break the spell. There would be time, he hoped. But for now...

He gently rolled John's balls in his right hand, and snaked his left up to John's nipple, rubbing it, and tweaking it just as gently. John began to moan in earnest, and thrust his hips, trying to get more friction. "Ohhhh Sherlock. That's so sweet. God your hands..." His hands gripped Sherlock's thighs tightly and bucked harder.

All John's rocking was pushing him back and forth against Sherlock's erection. He began to move his own hips in time with John's, and began to stroke his lover's cock harder. "You are the most amazing man. I've wanted this. I knew you'd feel so good against me. I'm close and it's all you, John. Your cock is so hard in my hand, and I can feel your arse against me. You drive me crazy, I just want to feel you everywhere. God look at yourself. Do you know how hot you are and how hot you're making me?"

His voice trailed off, and he bit down on John's shoulder, not painfully, but enough to make John jump again. "Sherlock... do that... harder oh God HARDER." 

Contrary to popular opinion, Sherlock could take directions. He bit the thick muscle of John's shoulder hard enough to leave a mark, and tightened his grip on John's cock. He pressed harder with his thighs and bucked against John's back, nearly lifting him off the bed. With a growl, he started rutting, pushing his cock against John with uncoordinated thrusts.

John tensed, and sucked in his breath. Sherlock twisted his right hand on the upstroke, and pinched John's nipple with his left. That's all it took and John swept into his orgasm, bucking and moaning Sherlock's name. His motion brought Sherlock to the edge, and hearing his name on John's lips, at this moment, was enough to send him over as well.

The two men bucked together, moaning and panting, gradually relaxing and slumping against one another.

Sherlock's head bumped back against the headboard while John's lolled on the detective's shoulder.

"That. Was. Amazing" Sherlock whispered. 

John giggled. "That's not what people usually say."

"What do people usually say?"

"My turn's next."


End file.
